


goal

by sirenseven



Series: props [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Grooming, Incest, Internalized Victim Blaming, Jack Drake is certainly a parent of some kind, M/M, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Tim Drake is Robin, love bombing but like in a batman way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Instinct tells Tim to be suspicious and on-guard, but experience insists he should enjoy the good things while they last.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 35
Kudos: 102





	goal

Tim removes his cape with careful precision, laying it on the bench. He smooths each wrinkle before folding up the thick material. It's been years since he was so precious with it. In his early months as Robin, he was painstaking every time he even touched the uniform. After three years of running roofs, punching bad guys, and seeing the far less awe-inspiring parts of vigilantism, it's hard to be wonderstruck by the little things anymore.

Today, his care comes not from awe, but as a delaying tactic. The shower lurks behind him like the monster in a horror movie. Like if he doesn't look at it, it doesn't exist—and as soon as he does, his skin starts crawling.

It's stupid. There's nothing _special_ about the shower. If anything that happened there was horrible, then he'd have to feel like this about a half dozen other locations in the cave and manor. And he doesn't. He's fine. So there's nothing wrong with the shower.

He drags out the post-patrol strip nonetheless. It's a good thing Bruce is preoccupied, lingering at the batcomputer to talk to Superman about some Justice League case; leaves no one to ask why Tim has stooped to folding _gloves_.

When there's no possible way to delay any further, he races through the world's fastest shower. He's out before the water even warms.

Tim throws on the clothes he arrived in (like he doesn't know they're just going to get ripped off him again) and slouches back to the cave proper. Superman is still on screen—the little one in front of Bruce's chair instead of the big one for full-team meetings. Half-listening to the discussion of recent murder attempts and new threats, Tim glances around the cave.

No Jason yet. That's a pleasant surprise. After how inescapable he was last night, Tim expected him to be lurking right outside. Tim might call him clingy, were he not a six-foot-tall stack of muscle liable to beat down anyone who tried. Jason isn't exactly subtle, and his annoyance that Tim dares to have a regular life and regular family and regular home outside the manor had been palpable. Tim is usually only here in the hours surrounding patrol, and Jason will have to get fucking used to that. Just because _he_ doesn't have a life...

Tim's sloppily dried hair tickles the back of his neck with a drop of water, and he suppresses a shudder at the associated discomfort. Stupid shower. Stupid _Tim_. Jason isn't even here yet. Instinct tells Tim to be suspicious and on-guard, but experience insists he should enjoy the good things while they last. He can't quite manage the second, but he's certainly vigilant enough to check off the first.

When the sound of the entrance clicking open above echoes down not a minute later, Tim thinks, _there you go_ , and straps in for another evening of Jason's taunts and—and stuff.

It's not Jason.

Tim stares as Dick scurries down to the main level. It takes him a second to understand what he's feeling—the sinking hollow, like his stomach slowly caving in on itself—because it's so unusual. Dick's visits are supposed to be a sure cause for joy. Today, Tim's brain insists that Dick is here to chew him out, list off each of his wrongs, and declare their—their friendship, brotherhood, whatever, over and done.

Yeah. And then Dick will push him over in the sandbox and call him a do-do head. Idiot.

The guilt gnaws at him nonetheless. He knows he shut down their last conversation in the coldest way when Dick was trying to help. Practically threw a fit because, what, Dick had the audacity to call him at a mildly inconvenient time? Because Tim was getting so good at the game of compartmentalization he couldn't handle the tiniest mention of his Robin life during his Tim Drake life?

Because he already picked his side, and it was Bruce. Tim's costs are sunk. It's too late for him to back out now. He can't do what Dick wants. He can't even confide that Dick is _right_ , that he's not stupid or crazy. That it's not his fault; Tim's being impossible.

So, no, Dick is too nice to be here just to yell at Tim, and probably even too nice to cut him off. But Tim knows he hurt Dick anyway. That's worse.

His hair keeps dripping and Tim shivers, avoiding Dick's gaze on its survey around the cave. Tim wraps his arms around himself.

Superman's voice provides a background: “...just worried. Ray is beside himself, and I can't blame him. If something happened to Lois...well.” Tim isn't really paying attention, but Dick must be by the way his brow furrows, head snapping to the screen..

“Lois?” The question falls out of Dick seemingly despite himself as he stops at the bottom of the stairs. Bruce looks sharply over.

“She's fine,” Bruce says, at the same moment Superman asks, “Is that Dick?”

For the first time in what seems a serious conversation, Superman's face clears enough to smile. Tim has worked with him a few times alongside Bruce or the Titans, but from what he understands, Dick got chummy enough with Supes back in his Robin days that they're likely to call themselves friends even without Bruce. So Tim doesn't know what to make of it when Dick hesitates at the question, face tight.

“Yeah,” he says, lacking the cheer Tim would expect. “Hey, Clark.”

“It's good to hear your voice. How are you?” Superman leans, peering to the side like he might be able to see around Bruce.

For just a second, Tim swears Dick is about to say something else. His eyes flicker between Bruce and Clark. Then he slumps, like air letting out of a balloon. “I'm fine. Is Lois...?”

“She's alright,” Superman says. “There's just been a threat.”

“The League is looking into it,” Bruce says.

“Yep. That.” Tim has never understood how Superman takes all Bruce's curtness and cynicism with a smile and friendship. Everybody talks about his strength and goodness, but he thinks they're probably underselling his patience.

Bruce's focus returns to the screen.

“Was there anything else?” he asks, like he's trying to prove Tim's point. True to form, Superman betrays no irritation at the blatant dismissal.

“No,” he sighs. “I guess we already have it all covered.”

“We do,” Bruce agrees. “We'll talk again later.”

“Of course. Thanks, Bruce. And we'll have to catch up soon, Dick.”

“Bye, Clark,” Dick says dully. Bruce shuts off the screen.

The short conversation didn't involve Tim in the slightest. Really would've been a perfect chance to duck back into the locker area and postpone his discomfort, if only Tim were that smart. Instead, he finds himself still locked in place when everyone's attention lands fully within the cave.

“Hi,” says Dick, offering Tim a weak smile. It makes him feel simultaneously better and worse.

“Hey,” he replies, pathetically insufficient.

Bruce rises to his feet. His cowl is still up, white eye-cutouts cold as he approaches Dick. “How long have you been here?”

“Few hours,” Dick murmurs, avoiding his gaze. He's probably not here to yell at Tim. For the first time, it occurs to Tim to wonder why he _is_ here. “Been talking to Alfred. I saw Jason.”

Bruce says nothing, stopping some feet away.

Tim can't quite define the tension crackling between them. Not as explosive as when it rises between Bruce and Jason. Not as chilly as when Tim's parents were on the outs. In an unplaceable way, it reminds him of every conversation where Bruce has told Stephanie to give up Spoiler and go home, except Tim can't remember Steph ever looking like a kicked dog.

“Thought I'd come down and see Timmy before he heads home,” Dick adds after a far too long silence.

He flashes Tim a smile. Tim tries to return it, but Dick has already looked away, gaze darting to and from Bruce repeatedly. He's nervous. He's doing a good job of hiding it, body still, but the movement's been shunted to his eyes.

“Tim usually stays a while longer to debrief,” Bruce says evenly. Tim has already logged his night's report so this is a blatant distortion, but he supposes Bruce can't exactly say, _actually, I was planning to fuck him before he goes, if you don't mind_.

“Even better,” Dick says brightly. His smile is about the fakest thing Tim has seen. “More stories to hear.”

Is Tim supposed to be here for this? The conversation nominally involves him, but he feels completely separate. Bruce and Dick are already at an awkward ten foot distance, and Tim even farther than that. It doesn't help that, while Dick has acknowledged him, Bruce hasn't so much as looked over. Not that he _needs_ to. He just saw Tim during patrol. Batman hardly needs to look at anyone; they all know his awareness is top-notch.

“I don't stay too long,” Tim says anyway. He immediately regrets drawing attention.

“Sure,” Dick says, shifting weight to his back foot. Casual lean for a civilian. Fight preparation for a vigilante. “I can hang out for however long you do.”

Tim is not the one he's looking at as he says it. He wondered why Dick was here; now slow suspicion creeps through the back of his skull. Dick is...blocking. Like a goalie to a net. He's here to make himself a problem.

Tim always knew Nightwing was far braver than him.

Bruce remains silent. Tim tries to catch his eye for a hint, a direction, a nudge of guidance, but none is incoming.

“I should probably get home soon,” he says hesitantly, nervous to pick the wrong path, nervous to say nothing. Tim has only seen Bruce and Dick really fight once, and there's a five hundred percent chance he will handle it horribly if this is what tips them to a second bout.

“I'll take you,” Bruce and Dick say in unison.

Tim blinks. Both men have turned to him, like Tim is performing for a tiny and extremely tense audience.

“You guys remember I live next door, right?”

Dick breathes a laugh like he's chagrined, though still without any real mirth. “Right.”

“Of course,” says Bruce. There's a slight pause before he adds, “You know how to get yourself home.”

On the surface, it's an obvious statement. Tim isn't a good Robin for nothing though; the most important part of his job is understanding Bruce, even when he has this little body language and this lack of expression. He's still on edge for misunderstandings, but that certainly seemed like permission. Maybe not an _endorsement_ , but...not an argument.

“Okay,” Tim says, awkwardly shifting to the side. This can't possibly work, right? Dick is good, but Bruce is _Bruce_. “So I should, uh, head out then?”

Bruce inclines his head. “Good work tonight, Robin.”

“Sure,” Tim says, barely processing it. “Uh, I mean—thanks.” Weird, weird, weird.

Dick inhales, and when he straightens up that perfect Dick Grayson smile is firmly in place. “Guess it's just the four of us tonight, then.”

“You're staying?” Bruce asks.

“Alfred made up a room.”

Bruce's frown deepens and Tim realizes—is, he's pretty sure, the _last_ to realize—that Bruce might have considered calling Tim back or following to his house otherwise. The idea of Bruce in Tim's bedroom at home is exactly the kind of concept that he immediately locks away in a little box and declines to think about. Dick is the perfect impression of blithe.

“He must be happy to have you home,” Bruce says. Bruce does not sound happy to have Dick home.

Dick's expression falters. “Yeah...must be.”

Tim wavers between wanting to stay and figure out what the hell is going on, and _dear god, just take the opportunity and GO, holy fuck, go, leave, go now, what are you DOING_.

“So, I will, uh. Go...home. Then.” Tim edges backwards towards the tunnel between Wayne and Drake properties. This is the most ridiculous narrating-out-loud bullshit ever. He's in some farcical comedy, except the kind where people who mess up die gruesome and hilarious deaths.

He keeps glancing between the men as they follow him out. A little bit at Dick, with guilt ( _he hates you; he probably hates you; you lied to him_ ), but mostly at Bruce to see if he's annoyed. Well—to see if he's annoyed with Tim. He's definitely annoyed with Dick, but Dick is too competent and clever to fall in the same stupid pit Tim has dug himself into, and he's sending a strong signal in favor of Tim going home. Tim is accustomed to following his lead in the field; if Bruce isn't protesting...

This can't _possibly_ work, Tim thinks again.

But it does.

They say wildly uncomfortable goodbyes at the tunnel entrance, and Tim heads out, and no one follows him. The background pulse of adrenaline sticks around all the way until he's tucked into bed, but even that can't combat a hard day's exhaustion. Tim falls asleep without so much as an unpleasant grope. He doesn't even have to see Jason at all.

–

Tim pours himself a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table, eyeing his dad. The man sits opposite him, scrolling through the news on his tablet. Dana has morning appointments with her PT clients, so it's just the pair of them. Dad doesn't look up as Tim eats, though his mouth tightens when Tim fumbles the spoon and clangs it sharply against his bowl.

Still in a stormy mood then. Not exploding though, and Tim will take what he can get. Considering his fury after he got a call from Tim's principal yesterday, this is an upgrade.

There was a blow up the day before too. Tim spent about three hours after his dad got home on Monday talking him out of suing the completely made-up dojo that definitely did not give him neck bruises. He's never been so happy his dad neglected to remember a single thing Tim rambled to him back when he really _was_ taking martial arts classes. Otherwise, he would have seen through the complete bullshit Tim spun when he claimed this sort of injury was totally normal and totally safe. Bruce's ability to fake the martial arts classes Tim blames for many of his pre-scheduled Robin events is a boon, but Tim is glad not to find out if the forgery could hold up against a lawsuit.

Considering he's zero for two on nice days with the family this week, Tim keeps his mouth shut over breakfast. Sometimes nothing is better than the alternative.

A quick raid of his closet on Monday determined Tim actually does own a turtleneck, and yesterday's laundry run lets him safely re-wear it today—Ives had a lot of jokes about the scarf Tim used instead yesterday. While he has some excuses prepared for school if the bruises do get seen, Tim would rather avoid having to keep multiple stories straight. At least he'll be able to use the simpler excuse of Robin when he sees Steph or the Titans.

By the time Tim is packed up and ready to leave, Dad seems to have cooled down.

“Have a nice day at school,” he calls as Tim heads to the front door.

“I will!” Tim calls back.

“Did you figure out a later bus schedule, or do you need me to pick you up?”

Tim releases the door handle and backs up to the living room entryway so they don't have to have this conversation shouted. Dad sits on one of the couches, tablet still loosely in hand and playing something that looks like sports recaps when he looks up to Tim.

“I found a route, but there's an extra transfer that makes it take longer, so I might be home late. Or...later than I was already going to be.” Tim winces. Should not have included that reminder.

Four days of detention. His finest achievement. Falling asleep in class has gotten him concerned looks before, a few trips to the guidance counselor, and once lunchtime detention. But it turns out cursing at a teacher gets you the rest of the week in real, after-school detention.

Tim wanted to bitterly blame it on Dick for invading his school hours, but it was no one's fault but his own. For snapping, for losing control of his emotions, or just for being such a fucking _liar_. He made this bed himself—and somehow he didn't think his social studies teacher would accept those as excuses. Tim took his detentions (and Ives's baffled look) in silence.

Dad, of course, has doubled down on the punishment by grounding Tim “indefinitely,” which means until Dana talks him down or he forgets. So Tim gets to serve his time at school, manage an extra-long commute—bus schedules in Bristol are so sparse they're nearly nonexistent—and then serve further time at home.

God, he misses his car. Just one of the many casualties after the company tanked, along with yearly archaeology trips and Mrs. Mac's housekeeping. At least they got to keep the manor.

“I can pick you up,” Dad says, to Tim's surprise. “Dana's working all day; maybe we'll grab food. What time are you out?”

“Uh, four,” Tim says. Has “indefinite” already ended, or does grounding allow for parentally-supervised fun?

What is going _on_? Tim's been handling his own trips to and from school ever since he got his license—at fourteen, with the special permission gained during his dad's injury—and now that means taking the bus. He definitely wasn't expecting the reward of extra father-son time after fucking up.

No—wait. That's not right. Dad doesn't do that, use time and attention as punishments or rewards. Tim maybe can't say his dad has always been around as much as he'd like, but it's not a _punishment_. Dad makes it pretty explicit when Tim's being punished.

This is just an offer to pick him up. And spend time together. Tim's cheeks twitch in threat of a genuine smile.

“A snack, then,” Dad decides. He lifts his tablet again. “We can pick something up on the way home.”

When he looks down, Tim's smile takes hold. Dana must have talked to him. Maybe this is just a one time thing, or maybe it's another declaration that his dad is going to Make An Effort again and Spend More Time Together. Maybe, after losing the company and reevaluating, it's even real this time. Tim hasn't been having the kind of luck that makes him want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll see you then, I guess.”

–

“And so,” Tim says, hand walking along the parapet, “Dana taught us how to make pot pies—or, I guess, _tried_ to teach us how to make pot pies. Dad's split and totally leaked out in the oven, but mine was alright, and Dana made extras anyway so it was all good.”

“That sounds great,” Dick says, legs swinging off his gargoyle perch. The light beneath it, showing off the architecture, should give him a spooky look, but it can't stand up to his fond smile. “Keep your knees together.”

“I'm trying.” Tim wobbles a bit as he follows the instruction. Counterbalancing his whipping cape is the hardest part. “The wind up here is no joke.”

“Best place to learn.”

“You're a sadist. What if I fall over, huh?” Not that he finds that likely. For all Dick nitpicks his form, Tim has gotten pretty good at this.

Dick blows out air through his lips. “Guess you'll just be a road pancake,” he laments, like there aren't four grapple guns and over fifteen years experience between them. “We'll put up a nice memorial.”

Tim sticks out his tongue. Just for that, he lets himself sway side-to-side like the wind is finally overwhelming him. Dick tenses up immediately, until Tim executes a perfect flip onto the roof and he sags back.

“Very funny,” Dick says. “Who's the sadist now?”

Tim hums. “I dunno; I think it's still you.”

“Oh, is it?” Dick challenges, straightening off his perch, and Tim nods with his best attempt at a disappointed frown. “C'mere, you.”

He launches into a spar, Tim dodging between laughs. Further back on the roof, even the wind is dulled.

He's so fucking glad Dick isn't mad at him. Even prepping before patrol, with all Dick's edginess around Bruce, he still stuck to Tim like glue. Not that they were in the cave long; Tim's family dinner turned into a family movie night, and he reached the cave barely in time to warm up before patrol. Chatter back there was strained, but out here on the roofs, it's like nothing has changed at all. Dick's tension has finally loosed. It's good to see him with a real smile.

Tim should really learn a lesson about jinxing himself. Batman's voice comes through the comms about two seconds after he has the thought.

“Disturbance at the Tricorner Yards,” he growls without preamble. “No sign of rogues currently, but it's close to an old Scarecrow hideout.”

Dick clamps up immediately, dropping the play-fight to stand stiff. He makes no move to answer and Tim takes up the slack. He's having a great day—didn't see Jason before patrol either—and he refuses to dwell on anything that will sour it. He even injects some of that old Robin cheer into his voice.

“Copy that, boss,” Tim responds. “We'll check it out.”

“Nightwing can handle it himself.”

Tim hesitates, glancing to Dick. Away from the lights, it's hard to make out his expression. The line of Nightwing's shoulders holds stiff, though his voice shoots for breezy. “A little backup can't hurt.”

“Who're you calling little?” Tim says just for him, not broadcasting over the comms. Dick softens.

He wants to tell Dick that it's okay. He can set the goalie pads down; nothing happens during patrol except for patrolling. (Unless Jason is there, brash and unkind in a warehouse, making snide little comments that Bruce acquiesces to—and nope, not thinking.) Tim can't figure out how to explain that without saying more than he's allowed to, though. More than he _wants_ to say out loud.

“Backup wouldn't hurt here either,” Batman says.

“On your stakeout?” Tim asks, unable to entirely keep the distaste out of his voice. Checking out a possibly rogue-infested disturbance with Nightwing, or sitting in stillness and silence with Batman for hours. Not hard to pick which sounds more fun. He's a little guilty at the thought—it's not that he doesn't want to spend time with Bruce; he swears he does—but still. It's a _stakeout_.

Tim assumes Bruce will insist Robin join him anyway, preparing himself to make vague reassurances to Dick. To his surprise, he gets a few seconds of silence instead before Batman sighs, “Alright. Investigate the disturbance with Nightwing.”

“You're the best, B.” Tim grins.

“Have fun.”

Bruce is so much harder to read when he's just a voice, and even more so when it's Batman's voice. Tim can't decide if that's derision in his tone, upset Tim has picked Nightwing tonight, or if it's a genuine sentiment. A spark of guilt alights behind his rib cage. Tim snuffs it down, forcing himself to take the words at face value.

He will have fun. Today is a good day.

Even as Bruce leaves the line, Dick's muscles remain taut. Tim frowns, sidling up to him.

“Hey,” he says, soft. When Dick looks over, Tim leans up like he's about to say something meaningful and heartfelt, hand inching towards the holster on his back. “Race you to Tricorner!” he shouts, knocks Dick's knees out with his staff, and bolts to the edge of the roof.

“Cheater!” Dick calls, sprinting after him.

Tim laughs into the night.

–

For once, his exhaustion is the pleasant kind. The buzz of a successful night lingers under Tim's skin, keeping him upright along with Alfred's midnight snack, though he's sure he'll crash as soon as he reaches his bed. There wasn't any sign of Scarecrow involvement after all, but Robin and Nightwing had a grand time catching some arms dealers with their metaphorical pants down.

Now, all three vigilantes slump around the kitchen island in various states of fatigue. Alfred sits at the side nearest the counters, delicately eating with far nicer posture than any of them ruffians.

Keeping a careful eye on him, Tim slowly brings up his legs to cross atop the stool. Call it his sneaky practice for the day. With Alfred unable to see from the other side of the island, he has a chance of getting away with it and dodging the affectionate lecture on proper table manners, so long as he doesn't mess up. It takes a little ab work, but Tim manages it without a single blip on his upper body.

He glances automatically at Bruce, to share that secret smile of whenever they manage to get one over on Alfred, but Bruce isn't looking. By the dark expression on his face, hand over mouth and chin as he leans on the counter, he's stewing in his own thoughts. Tim wilts back, looking to Alfred instead.

Tim has seen quiet nights between the family after rough fights in Gotham kept them all up till dawn, but rarely after a normal patrol. Dick is reserved though—and Bruce, of course, is Bruce—so it falls to Tim to keep a conversation going. It really helps that his throat doesn't hurt today. Sitting is miraculously easy too.

For a second, Tim has a treacherous thought of how nice it feels to get a little bit of a break from all the sex, and then his brain does a one-eighty to lambaste itself. No one wants a break from _sex_. And it's making Bruce happy, (and Jason, but fuck Jason), and it's not like Tim doesn't like it too, so it's ridiculous to put so much value on sitting cross-legged comfortably.

“What's in this, Alfred?” he asks. “It's good.”

“Roasted cauliflower and turmeric, Master Tim,” Alfred says, sipping another spoonful.

“Huh.” Tim blows on his own. His stomach is pleasantly warm, but his tongue appreciates the preparation, thank you very much. “Didn't think I was a cauliflower guy.”

“I've found you quite open to trying any kind of food,” Alfred says.

Tim shrugs, taking the bite. Before he can come up with another inane topic to keep the conversation moving, a voice cuts in from the door.

“Isn't this cozy.”

Jason. Of course. It was too good to believe he'd really stay away all night. He leans in the doorway, fist tapping against the wood. Tim sinks down as Bruce straightens up. Dick goes suddenly alert, a noticeable presence for the first time since they started eating.

It's Alfred who greets him though, smiling at Jason and waving him in like he hasn't even noticed the tense silence Tim so determinedly filled. “Soup, Master Jason?”

He gives Dick a firm look, tilting his head to indicate Dick should move beside Tim and leave the seat at the end open. Dick meets Alfred's eyes for a split second before his gaze drops, and he slides over as instructed.

Jason eyes his newly vacated end seat with the easy exit paths and relents.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, slinging himself onto the stool.

Alfred beams, getting up to ladle another bowl.

“Now, meanwhile Master Jason,” he says, “was open to trying any food, but only if he'd seen someone else eat it first.” The twinkle in Alfred's eye when he glances at Jason marks it out as good-natured teasing. Tim would probably get his face pounded in if he said something like that, but Jason just gives an eye roll he can only label as affectionate.

Alfred doesn't say how Dick was with food. Dick doesn't say anything at all.

If Tim didn't know better, he'd say they were mad at each other. Now that he's thinking about it, he can't remember if he's seen them directly speak to each other at all. He's being stupid. Making up ridiculous and nonexistent problems when the obvious answer is that they're all just tired—and that no one here is at their best whenever Bruce is fighting with Dick.

Considering that, it's no surprise when the chatter dries up. Tim lost the desire to keep it going with Jason's presence. The sounds of spoons in bowls fill the kitchen, everyone pretending they're tired instead of avoidant.

As the bowls start to get empty, Tim spots Jason trying to catch Bruce's eye, get an idea of the game plan here, and thinks, _Good luck with that_. Bruce has been barely giving him a hint since Dick arrived. It's a childish relief when he doesn't provide any for Jason either.

Unfortunately, Jason being Jason, he takes it upon himself to restart the conversation. “So, how long you staying in Gotham, Dickiebird?”

Dick shrugs vaguely, stirring his soup more than eating it. “Few days, I guess.”

“Few days? Taking some time off work, then?” Jason raises his eyebrows. “You do work now, right?”

“I teach gymnastics,” Dick confirms. For a moment, he looks ready to talk, and then he glances at Bruce and hunkers down again. “Took some days off.”

“Weird time for a vacation.”

Dick just shrugs. Jason huffs, and Tim is reminded of a kid on a playground, upset his current target doesn't want to play with—read, be pushed around by—him.

“What about you, Timmy?” (Oh, goodie.) “Staying over this weekend?”

“I go to the Titans on the weekend,” Tim says, glad to have a definitive answer. In a dumb fit of pettiness, he adds, “Thought you might remember that one.”

It feels good for about two seconds before Alfred frowns at him, and Tim wilts again.

“All weekend?” Jason says. _Tantrum coming in three..._ Jason turns his glare on Bruce, who finally deigns to look up.

“The Teen Titans are a regular commitment,” he confirms. Jason—Tim won't say _pouts_ , on account of potential face-beating, but he definitely glowers. Bruce examines him, before glancing to Tim. “Perhaps you could join us after school tomorrow. Stay for dinner.”

“Oh,” says Tim. The offer gives him a conflicted sense of warmth. He can't decide if he's reluctant or not to say, “I, uh...can't.”

“Can't?” Bruce repeats.

Tim hunches over his bowl. “I'm grounded,” he mutters.

Jason lets out a guffaw of laughter. Tim resists the urge to kick him, sensing Bruce ready to intercede. Dick is looking between the three of them with squinted eyes, suddenly an outsider to a dynamic that cemented itself within the last week.

Bruce furrows his brows. “Not Robin...?”

“No, nothing like that,” says Tim. Fortunately, this is not another case of Tim drawing his dad's ire by going MIA without warning on Robin business he can't explain. Trying to make it sound casual, he adds, “I got detention.”

“What for?” Bruce asks.

 _Well you see, Ms Cohen asked why I didn't do my essay, and I told her I was busy, and then she asked why I hadn't planned time to get it done earlier, and I told her to fuck off and mind her own business, and wouldn't you know she did not like that very much. A few of the kids in class apparently think I'm a lot cooler now, though_.

“Talking back,” Tim mumbles, a wonderfully vague description.

Jason snorts. “I'll bet.”

Tim finds all his conflicted guilt about potentially avoiding sex for the second night in a row conveniently vanishing. He drops his spoon in the now-empty bowl, not quite looking at Jason but smiling brightly as it clatters. With a relaxed sigh, he hops to his feet to take it to the sink.

“Whelp, I should probably be getting home soon.”

Jason sits up, turning sharply to Bruce. Pinned by Dick's attention, Bruce doesn't so much as look at him. Tim resists the urge to smirk.

“Have a nice night,” Bruce says into his bowl.

Tim isn't even bothered by the lukewarm acknowledgment. Jason about to blow a gasket—and do it purely at Bruce, while Tim isn't even around—cheers him up plenty.

Dick's expression is much warmer. “I'll walk you out.”

“Awesome,” Tim says, smiling back. He'll swear to his dying breath it's genuine, but there is most certainly a petty delight in adding, “Good night, everyone!”

–

Tim typically showers at home after school. It's an old holdover from when he actually had extracurriculars and that semester he had gym last period before he managed to waive the requirement. Twice daily showers are just another thing he's gotten used to in the vigilante lifestyle—one shower for Tim Drake, one shower for Robin.

The Drake estate is wildly expensive and lavish by most standards. Tim knows that, he swears. Still, sometimes he can't stop himself from evaluating it in comparison to what a billionaire can buy. His bathroom is only “his” in practice, branching off the hall instead of included as part of a suite in his room. The shower is fit for one, and its sandy tiles and frosted glass are a marked comparison to the dark wood and opulent texturing at Wayne Manor.

He tries not to acknowledge how much he appreciates the difference right now.

Tim's mind wanders off as he cleans, thinking of things closer to home instead. How to package up an anecdote about Cassie and Bart's latest tower shenanigans in a dad-friendly way. Shampoo. What he can possibly say about a very mundane day of school and _very_ dull hour of detention that will make good dinner chatter. Conditioner. If he can find an archaeological museum exhibit Dad hasn't seen yet that they could go to together. Fingers digging inside himself to clean out.

Tim is out of the shower and toweling off before it occurs to him to second guess the last step. The habit has become so ingrained. But with Dick sticking around—and sticking to _him_ —he has the strangest moment of wondering if it's even necessary. If just this once he could have...skipped.

Doesn't matter; what's done is done. Besides, part of Batman's training is to always be prepared for anything.

Still, the idea that maybe he _could_ have skipped it sticks.

-

“Robin.”

Tim has barely pulled his gloves on, still unmasked, when Bruce calls across the cave. Jason had just appeared at the top of the staircase, and Tim is all too happy to move away from him, ducking over to the garage area and Bruce.

Dick, lightly warming up on the parallel bars, eyes him vigilantly. Tim tries not to feel so fucking _guilty_ under his gaze.

“I have something for you,” Bruce says, when Tim joins him on the platform. Tim lifts his eyebrows.

The area is littered with projects. The deconstructed chassis of a crashed Batmobile stands to Tim's left. A number of other partially-constructed cars spread out around it. There's half a motorcycle to one side of Tim and he can't tell if it's being put together or pulled apart. To the other side, a workbench still holds Bruce's latest project on tires. Tim helped with that one for a bit, but, frankly, tires are just not remotely as interesting as engines. Bruce can keep the chemistry; Tim prefers mechanics.

Half the cars are under dust covers, so he doesn't think to take note of the nearest until Bruce approaches it, glancing back. When he's confirmed Tim is paying attention, he whips off the sheet. The car underneath is fully made, polished, and detailed. And _red_.

“You made me a car?” says Tim.

“Well, I know your father made you sell the Redbird, but there's no reason I can't give my Robin a car.” Amusement glimmers in Bruce's eyes. “Of course, you probably can't take it home without your father asking questions, but you can certainly keep it here.”

Tim grimaces at the reminder, though it doesn't stop him from circling this beautiful piece of work. Last time, the Redbird's appearance was easy to justify to his dad. Nowadays, a car for Tim is no way in the budget, and Dad would ask questions if he brought one home without paying.

Still, it's a _car_. Call Tim a predictable teenage boy, but he loves cool cars, and Bruce has the top of the line. Bruce has so far above the line that all those dumb cars that _thought_ they were the top can't even hold a candle. Turns out a new baby really can fill the hole left in Tim's heart by the Redbird.

“What are the specs?” he asks, rubbing a loving hand along the iridescent red paint before looking at Bruce across the top. It's slim, low to the ground; must get _great_ speed.

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitches up, hint of a challenge. “Why don't you tell me?” he says, popping the hood.

Tim wastes no time in swiveling around to peer under. He runs a thumb lovingly over the engine, categorizing each piece. Tim looks up, further questions on his lips, just in time to see Jason at the far side of the platform a second before he clears his throat.

Bruce glances over his shoulder, tone still cheerful as he greets, “Jason.”

Jason doesn't respond verbally but gestures Bruce over with his head. Tim tries to turn invisible under the hood. Anything Jason wants to talk to Bruce about privately is surely bad news for him.

“Compile your best guesses on those specs,” Bruce says, meeting Tim's eyes with a teasing note in his own. “I'll be quizzing you when I get back.”

Tim's glee dims in Jason's presence, but he still has to smile back in the face of Bruce's good mood. Bruce nods and slips over to Jason.

Beyond them, Dick still dangles from the bars. He reminds Tim of a hovering hawk, sharp-eyed and attentive, but circling too high above to be involved. The Nightwing suit is already on, and Dick adjusts his gloves as he drops off the bars.

Tim tries to focus back on the engine, but his ears remain poised towards Bruce and Jason.

“—think he _knows_ —” Jason says. Tim can only get about half the words with his tone. He can't tell if it's a statement or a question either, because Jason always sounds sort of angry and obstinate. Jason cuts his head to the side, and Tim immediately snaps his gaze down before realizing he was indicating Dick. “...keeps trying to fucking talk to me.”

“Don't make up problems where there aren't any,” murmurs Bruce, deep voice more distinguishable from a distance. “What exactly did he say?”

Again, Tim misses part of Jason's response, but understands, “asking a lot of really pointed questions.”

“Such as?” Bruce asks. Jason's hissed answer is incomprehensible except for “—fucking—” (very unhelpful), before Bruce shakes his head. “He's just fishing.”

Then his voice lowers too much to be heard as well. Tim stares intently at the engine, doing his very best to look like a person who definitely has not heard from the man himself that Dick knows, who totally should not be forced into the middle of this argument, and who _absolutely_ isn't aware that Bruce is underplaying the situation if not outright lying to Jason.

For once, the universe smiles down on him, and neither man even glances his way. When Bruce swings back over, he's clearly determined to move on from the harried aside, and Tim is all too happy to oblige.

“So what's your diagnosis?” says Bruce, indicating the car.

Tim's brain frantically scrambles for the answers he only briefly considered. “Uh, Redbird II. Or Redbird Junior. Or something totally new. I can't decide; what do you think?”

“No reason to change something that works,” says Bruce, resting an easy hand on the car. “Redbird II, definitely. There's nothing junior about her.”

Tim smiles. It's what he's supposed to do.

–

Dick circles the car with a creased brow. A back alley isn't the most well-lit place for him to get a good look at the new Redbird, but Tim figured he wouldn't be relaxed enough in the cave—in Bruce's presence—to truly appreciate its splendor.

Now he feels like Dick isn't appreciating it at all.

“What's that look for?” Tim says, frowning

“Nothing,” Dick says.

“Nothing? 'Cause your face looks like you found the ugliest of all dents.” (He didn't. Tim has pored over every inch of his baby, and it is dent-free.)

Dick sighs. When he looks up, his face has smoothed out. It's creepy how he can do that sometimes. “It's a very nice car. I just...”

Tim waits out the pause, but Dick must either change his mind, or fail to find the words.

“It's a nice car,” he repeats.

Tim taps at his thigh, almost ready to ask, but it just seems so stupid to poke where there needn't be a problem. He does feel a little less hyped to offer Dick a test drive, though. With Dick's distant stare, he wouldn't appreciate a single moment. At _best_. At worst, he might distractedly run the car straight up onto the sidewalk.

They do end up riding together towards their lead—a contact traced back from one of those arms dealers they caught last night—but Tim drives, and Dick stares out the window. The Redbird II, like its predecessor, has a volume control on the engine. With it turned all the way down, and the world outside cut off, it's uncomfortably silent. Something probably never before said about Tim and Dick.

“So,” Tim says, fidgets, and then plows on, “you're staying in the manor?”

It's not like he's worried about Dick doing something bad or being in danger. He's _Dick_ ; he's, like, incorruptible and invulnerable. But it's been bugging Tim, in the back of his mind. Dick appears shortly after Tim arrives at the manor each night, like he was conjured out of the ether, and Tim can't imagine he's hanging with Bruce during the afternoons.

“Oh, uh.” Dick lifts his head from the window, blinking a few times. “Sort of. I guess.”

Tim glances over, then back to the road. Important to stay aware, especially while the car is stealthed. “What are you doing all day?”

“I was gonna try to spend time with Jason,” Dick starts.

“Bad idea,” Tim cuts in.

“Yeah.” Dick huffs, running a hand through his hair. “He seems to think so too. So I've been spending most of the days out. Come back for dinner and patrol.” For the time just before Tim arrives until after Tim leaves, he means.

Tim pretends not to notice. “You're not going back to Blüdhaven in between?”

“Grabbed some of my stuff the other day, but...no point in staying there when I'm taking time off work anyway.” Taking days off work because the turn around of leaving his classes, commuting to Gotham, and reaching the manor before Tim was too tight to risk.

“How long can you really do that?” Tim asks, not wanting the answer. He's shot past being an inconvenience. He's an outright burden now.

Dick hesitates. “I told them I have a family emergency. They're being really nice and understanding and trying to give me some time, but...”

“It's not infinite,” Tim finishes.

Dick grimaces, and he knows he's right.

“It'll be okay,” Dick says. Tim holds his breath, praying he won't say anything more direct. More direct puts them in the danger zone where Tim can't answer, might have to confront the lines he's already toeing just by entertaining a vague conversation like this, knowing how displeased Bruce would be. “We'll figure something out.”

Vague enough. Gotham keeps running and Tim gets to keep hanging with Dick.

–

For the second day in a row, Tim's dad catches him before he leaves for school. Tim swerves at the call, detouring to the door of Dad and Dana's bedroom. Dana is downstairs, making breakfast, but his dad looks up from the closet when Tim peeks in.

“Tim, hey.” He leans a hand beside the closet, half-turning to face his son. “Listen.”

So it's bad news, then. He only ever starts like that when he knows Tim is going to be let down.

“The National Archaeology Masters' Conference is next week. I know it's short notice, but your old man just managed to score an invite, and those aren't easy to come by.”

Despite knowing it was coming, Tim's heart sinks. “Oh,” he says, trying not to let his disappointment show.

It's not like he can be surprised. This is exactly the kind of thing Mom and Dad used to go wild for: joining a bunch of other people in nice suits to talk about digging up dusty old stuff. They became members of Gotham's Archaeological Society before Tim was born, and Dad has never waned on his dues. Things have been going so _well_ here, though. Tim knows it's only really been two days, but still. That's how it starts, right? Two days, then three days, one by one.

“Must've really impressed someone at that last G.A.S. meeting,” Dad says, either ignorant to Tim's mood or ignoring it. His smile screams, _this is great! Be happy for me!_ “Wished they'd have dropped the invite a little sooner, though.”

“So you're going,” Tim says obviously, shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching against the doorframe.

“Well, it's been a while since we've been on a _real_ trip.” Tim resists the urge to point to last weekend. It's not like Dad knew this was going to happen when they planned the getaway. Dad returns to the closet to pull out clothes for the day. “And it's in New York this year. Did you know somehow Dana has never been? The conference is Monday through Thursday, so I thought maybe we'd stay Friday as well so I can really show her the sights.”

“Dana's going?”

Dad looks up from where he's laying a shirt on the bed, eyebrows raised. “She's my wife.”

Tim knew that was a stupid question, though part of him wants to shoot back with a childish, _and I'm your son_. He won't. Tim gave up on that tactic ages ago, after his third “traveling will make me far more cultured and worldly and intelligent than boarding school ever could” pitch to his parents failed.

A not-insignificant part of him wants to beg his dad to stay anyway. Just _stay_.

“Tim...”

He doesn't realize how lost he is in his thoughts until the name makes him jerk up. By the tone, he wasn't as good as hiding his gloom as he meant to be. Dad has a sympathetic crease in his forehead.

“I know...” Dad hesitates, considering. Tim has rarely ever seen him take time before speaking. “I know it's the sort of thing your mom and I used to do together. It's been a few years, and I love Dana, but I don't want you to feel like...like I'm trying to make her into—”

“No,” Tim blurts. “I didn't. I mean, I don't. I don't feel like you're replacing mom. It's been years.” It's the first time in forever he's been honest with his dad about something real, and it's not even anything he was thinking about. Tim takes a deep breath, deciding maybe it's worth trying a little more honesty. “I'm just...bummed you're leaving.”

Dad looks genuinely surprised for a second before, to Tim's surprise, smiling. “Hey, we'll be back before you know it, champ. Growing boy like you, you'll probably love having the house to yourself, huh? No parties!” he adds, pointing a strict finger, like that's something Tim would ever do.

“No parties,” he agrees. At least there's one thing he can do right for his dad.

The man stays weirdly fussy all morning. Tim takes it with bemusement, wondering if it's a performative worry for Dana's sake, or if Dad really has gotten more apprehensive about leaving Tim alone. Possibly all his mysterious (i.e. Robin-related) disappearances have ruined his credibility there.

Dana seems genuinely concerned over breakfast, though.

“I can take care of myself for a week,” Tim assures her.

“Okay,” Dana says. She glances at her husband. “If you're sure.”

“Tim's practically an adult,” says Dad, clapping him on the shoulder. “He can handle it.”

Tim smiles, slicing another piece of pancake. “Are you, uh, still going to pick me up today, or...?”

“Sure,” says Dad, like this is a totally normal thing they do regularly. God, he really is trying to compensate. It's strange, but Tim will take everything he can get. “You still headed to your weekend camp tonight?”

Tim's “camp,” otherwise known as the Teen Titans. He nods in confirmation, taking a bite.

“Want me to take you to the drop off point later?”

Tim barely stops himself from choking on maple syrup. Considering the drop off point is the on-ramp to the batjet... “Nope, I'm good, thanks!”

“Alright,” Dad sighs, the put-upon father rejected by his too-cool-for-it son. “Family dinner, then.” He leans in, winking conspiratorially. “Maybe we can convince Dana to let us ruin another one of her recipes.”

Across the table, Dana gasps like she's affronted, and Tim can't help the chuckle.

–

Tim has been in the cave for about half a second before Bruce ushers him onto the jet. They start rolling out immediately. He has just enough time to double check he has his bag in hand and phone in his pocket, and then they're airborne.

“In a rush?” Tim asks, stumbling up to the open cockpit to lean over the co-pilot's seat. To his left, Bruce steadies out the takeoff. The batjet could surely take off automatically—and probably land automatically too—but Tim thinks Bruce likes the security of manning it himself.

“No,” Bruce says. Tim raises his eyebrows, but Bruce neither looks over nor elaborates. “Nice dinner with your parents?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. He almost tells Bruce about the sudden trip and then...stops. He refuses to examine why; goes so far in the opposite direction that he starts trying to convince himself he forgot, while he is literally thinking about it. “We, uh, made lasagna.”

He watches Bruce at the controls. Tim has the entire Robin costume on, but Bruce donned only the base armor of the Batsuit. The rest remains in reach, but it's still a change from his usual paranoia.

Bruce releases the controls, plane leveled out, and leans forward to switch on autopilot. “Four hours to Titans Tower.”

Tim's shoulders hunch up as Bruce stands.

“Feels like I haven't seen you in ages,” Bruce adds, stepping over to smooth Tim's hair back.

Tim stays motionless under the gesture, still leaning on the co-pilot's seat with his side to Bruce. He knows what Bruce means, but has the pointless urge to pretend he doesn't. “You've seen me every night.”

He regrets it right after, catching the smile in the corner of his eye. Bruce always likes when Tim is unfamiliar with something sexual or doesn't get an innuendo. Including, apparently, when he's faking it.

“That's not quite what I mean,” Bruce says softly, shifting his hand to cup behind Tim's neck and pull him up.

Tim finally has to release the back of the seat, turned to face him. He tilts up in a practiced move as Bruce leans in, mouth parting easily for him. The slot of Bruce's lips against his feels like coming home, but in a way that's...off. Like trying to settle into a comfortable old chair while cradling a broken arm. Like old lovers, he tells himself, only one of them happens to have a headache, or something minimal and temporary and unimportant like that.

He's probably just—tired. Or distracted. Thinking about Dad, or looking forward to seeing the Titans, or wondering if Dick meant to be there before they took off, if he was ready to join them on the flight, if he scurried down into the cave only to see the jet already pulling away without him...

Bruce's arm slides around Tim's waist before he breaks their kiss. The hint of a smile on his lips encourages Tim to mirror it.

If he's being a little less stupid about this, Tim should probably acknowledge that Bruce has been super cool and relaxed about these past few days, despite having every reason to get annoyed. He can't possibly be happy about the whole Dick thing—and has surely noticed Tim failing to reject Dick, if not outright abetting—but he hasn't so much as brought it up. Even now, it's like he's savoring a reunion instead of pushing for compensation.

Tim tries to lean into the arm, show his overdue gratitude. He's not a complete asshole. Bruce smiles, squeezing his waist. He leans in for a moment's affection, before turning them back towards the more comfortable seating in the back of—

Jason is in one of the chairs. Tim stops dead despite Bruce's arm, before he is half-dragged into inching forward again. Jason is here. Jason has been casually lurking behind them. (Tim wasn't aware Jason was capable of being quiet for that long.) Jason has been on the plane the whole time. Jason _will be_ on the plane the whole time.

The man in question lounges by a window, pretending to stare idly out before glancing over in a pantomime of realization. “Oh, sorry, are you _done_ now?”

“There's no need to be snide,” Bruce chides, shifting Tim forward as if to display him.

Jason grunts like he has a disagreement or ten to take with that, but his eyes drop to Tim. To think, Tim got three whole days where he wasn't looked at like particularly juicy prey.

Any questions Tim had about how Bruce and Jason used to work together as partners have been put to rest this week. Bruce urges him forward, out of his arm, and Jason stands to reach him in the same moment. The pass off is seamless.

Jason slides a hand up the side of Tim's neck, in a gesture that feels far more threatening than romantic. Tim tenses. The bruises have _just_ started to fade; he swears to god, if Jason tries to remake them...

He doesn't. In a second, while Tim is waiting to fend off one attack, Jason has him spun around. He tugs Tim close, his back pressed against Jason's chest, one arm barring his shoulders and the other rested on his hip. It turns them both to Bruce, who's now leaning back into one of the chairs facing them.

Tim holds his breath as hands approach his neck. There's a slight tug, a click, and then his cape drops off.

He only releases the air when Jason's hands slide away. They shift out on his shoulders, thumbs hooking under the red straps of the leotard and slowly dragging them down Tim's arms, over the shirt layered beneath, over the gloves. Bruce watches with dark eyes shifting between Jason's hands—Tim's body—and their faces. Tim keeps locked on his face. It's one of those moments where he feels like he should be doing something, whether that's fighting or twisting to complain to Jason's face or pulling off the leotard himself, but all he can do is stay still and quiet.

The movement catches on Tim's utility belt. Jason spares a second to unceremoniously unclasp it and let it drop to Tim's feet, before resuming. He slowly draws the leotard all the way down, as far as he can reach, to the top of Tim's thighs, before nudging it to fall. It crumples over the belt and cape. Tim is showing no more skin than before, but the loss of his top layers feels vulnerable nonetheless.

Bruce has barely moved, just leaned back and let his legs spread a little. Tim can hear his own breathing as loud as the plane's rumble. He feels like a complete person, a complete body; it's just that the hands aren't his own.

They drag slowly back up his sides, plastering over his thighs, his hips, waist, ribs, catching his arms and dragging them along. Tim lets the motion carry him like a wave, until Jason has pulled Tim's wrists all the way up behind his own neck. He links his hands obediently, despite the way it makes his back arch, the way his head tips against Jason's chest.

The hands drop down to play with the top of his pants and hem of his shirt in turn. One second they've tugged down to expose a hint of his hipbone, the next they've strayed up to display a sliver of abdomen.

Jason's head lowers beside his, and again Tim tenses to have him so close to his throat.

“Say, 'I missed you too, Daddy,'” Jason orders, in a barely-audible whisper.

Tim swallows back the distaste. Beyond not liking Jason instructing him, maybe not being into the kink at all, he _really_ doesn't like the reminders that Bruce and Jason are literally father and son. Tim knows they were Batman and Robin as well, and the rules are different, but it still grips him with a strong discomfort he can't shake.

Jason's hands hold firm on his hips. His breath tickles Tim's neck.

“I missed you too, Daddy,” Tim says. His eyes haven't left Bruce, but he's not really seeing anymore, just the vague impression of Bruce shifting in arousal. Jason hums in his ear and starts pulling up the shirt.

Four hours to Titans Tower.

–

The warm rush of wind as the ramp descends shocks Tim for a moment. San Francisco. Of course it's warm. He blinks, trying to recenter himself. In a minute, he's going to see his friends down there, and he's going to have to act like a person.

“I'll pick you up on Sunday,” Bruce says, like he does every time. “And Alfred will make up your room for the week.”

Tim falters. The trip. He didn't say anything.

But Bruce always knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one, folks! Hope the longer-than-usual chapter makes up for it. (And I will slip in a reference to writerseven.tumblr.com where I occasionally drop updates and previews for this series, for any who may be interested.) I've been trying, mostly successfully, to make writing a habit, but I'm very determined to not turn it into a chore and burn myself out. Suffice to say, I'm pretty confident I'll finish this series, even if I don't always get y'all updates as quickly as I'd like ♥
> 
> Next time: When plan A fails, you go to plan B. When plans B through Q fail....


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